


Grievences Endured in Silence

by somethingsalwayswrong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingsalwayswrong/pseuds/somethingsalwayswrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After all, if Sherlock forgets every single time to mention that they're out of tea, then chances are bringing it up isn't going to help.</p>
<p>And if John has that irritating habit of hovering around Sherlock's work space, tidying as he goes, well that's not going away anytime soon, either.</p>
<p>They aren't closed off from each other. No, far from it. As far as friends go, neither John nor Sherlock can remember a friendship as open and honest as the one they have with each other. </p>
<p>It's just... There's some things you don't say."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>More or less plotless. Mostly having to do with the relationship between John and Sherlock and how it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grievences Endured in Silence

There are some things you just don't say.

 

_I hate the smell of your aftershave._

_Could you please not put the empty milk carton back?_

_There is no logical reason to take hour-long showers._

 

The reason these sentences aren't said out loud is because it does no good. After all, if Sherlock forgets every single time to mention that they're out of tea, then chances are bringing it up isn't going to help.

And if John has that irritating habit of hovering around Sherlock's work space, tidying as he goes, well that's not going away anytime soon, either.

They aren't closed off from each other. No, far from it. As far as friends go, neither John nor Sherlock can remember a friendship as open and honest as the one they have with each other.

It's just...

~

There's some things you don't say.

Like how Sherlock finds it irritating that John is so obvious of his appreciation of a particular kind of woman. How as they walk down the street together, hand shoved in pockets, bodies unconsciously swaying nearer, John's eyes happen to follow a leggy brunette, not overly flashy but then again, conventionally pretty all the same.

And Sherlock doesn't mention it because what good would that do? He'd make some snide remark, they'd begin to argue in the middle of the street about it, and eventually, inevitably, the question would arise:

Why does it even matter?

And, truth be told, Sherlock doesn't know.

 

~

 

"If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," was a phrase John's mother was fond of when he was a child. Which is why John would never bother bringing up his hatred for atonal music.

It's not as if it would stop Sherlock from composing it at 3 in the morning, a screeching noise followed by several impatient hisses of the violin after it and the scribble of a pencil on paper, marking down what would apparently become part of the final composition. Lovely.

John could get up, yell about how it's too early in the bloody morning for this shit, wake up all the neighbors, hear Mrs. Turner's married couple next door snicker about how they needed to "get on with it already", and have Mrs. Hudson fret over them, bringing tea and biscuits, asking if they were "having problems" and whether someone needed to use her pull-out couch that night. But it was all pointless. That had all been played out before. And besides, he was warned upon meeting Sherlock about the violin being played at all hours of the night, wasn't he?

Which is why John elects to ignore Sherlock's latest ode to Schoenberg, cover his ears with a pillow, and go back to sleep.

~

It's not as if Sherlock's unaware of the way John goes through his things. No, anyone with eyes could see that John snoops in his dressers when he's out. Possibly even someone without eyes that possessed a keen sense of smell. A theory to be tested on another day...

No, Sherlock knows. He just wishes that John would ask before touching his things. After all, everything in his room is where it needs to be. It may not be in any sort of order that makes sense to others but Sherlock can see the invisible strings that tie certain things together and when John comes in and touches things and moves things, the perfectly planned web is destroyed. He comes in, moves the books on the shelf around and suddenly, Sherlock has trouble locating his shoes. That's how it always goes.

He'll never mention it, though. John would never understand his system of organizing and simply reply that Sherlock touches all of his things, so why did it matter.

Sherlock instead elects to re-build the mental web, piece by piece, hoping that this time, it'll stay.

~

And after a while, they do learn what not to say to each other, what is pushing the limits of their friendship. What the frame of their relationship can hold and what would break it.

So John praises Sherlock's intelligence but never mentions that the way his eyes light up at a new discovery is like staring into a supernova.

And Sherlock compliments John on his ability to scrounge together semi-decent meals in the kitchen but fails to add that the idiotic "Kiss The Cook" apron his sister sent for Christmas as a gag gift is the real highlight of his home-cooked meals.

And neither one of them sees any importance to bring up those looks that they share, with their cheeks flushed after chasing someone down, hair tousled from the wind, panting, leaning on each other like they couldn't stand on their own, which is very likely true.

So they let all that go and John watches a reality shows about people who own a chocolate shop and Sherlock stays silent. And Sherlock hides the remote for three days and John says nothing, simply goes on a quiet search for it every night until he finds it, buried under the potting soil in their ficus.

After all, why bother bringing it up?

~

And in the end, neither of them has to say anything at all.

Standing in an empty storm drain, breath crystallizing before them, their ears still ringing from gunshots that couldn't have been more than a few centimeters from their heads, warmth still rising from the dead body on the ground beneath them, they both look up at each other with the same look on their face: pure, unadulterated relief that the other was alive and breathing and still had blood in them to spill at a later date.

Sherlock drops the gun, rushes over to John, cups the back of his head, and crushes his mouth against the ex-army doctor's. The kiss is desperate, it's thanking, it's months of things left unsaid, looks left unexplored, chances not taken and who the hell are they if not the kind of people who take those stupid chances?

And neither of them hold back and neither are surprised that it's happened.

They never do end up having a discussion on what this should be called or why their first kiss was over the dead body of a serial killer in a storm drain in the dead of winter. Or how nobody is at all surprised to see them at the Yard's annual Christmas party, hands brushing under the table, sneaking kisses when they think nobody's looking. And if they never do find time to discuss what it means when they buy each other gifts on the anniversary of that storm drain kiss, well that's okay.

After all, things like this are better left unsaid.


End file.
